


a new home

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Happy Ending, Recovery, Softness, Veterinary Clinic, cat!Crowley, kitten!Crowley, kittens up for adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 14:22:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: Aziraphale rescues a kitten from the streets.





	a new home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TycoonTwister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TycoonTwister/gifts).

> im soft™

If one happens to find themselves in London, Soho, one might stumble upon a little bookshop. 

The sign above the door, which hasn’t been changed once since the 1800s, reads _ Mr A. Fell, Purveyor of Books to the Gentry _ in gold, hand-painted lettering. On either side of the shop, one can also read _ Antiquarian and Unusual Books. _The bookshop has been there for as long as people can remember. Consequently, many assume it is a family business, although old neighbors would tell you with the utmost conviction that the owner has never changed. Mr. Fell looks the same now as he did when Mrs. Hart next door was eleven, and playing on the cobbled streets with her sister. He even gave her a book for free one time, because it was her birthday. To thank him, Mother invited him to the party. They had cake. Mr. Fell was delighted. 

The point is : that bookshop is now such an intrinsic part of Soho that Londoners no longer pay any attention to it. If one were to look at the Yelp reviews for said shop, out of curiosity, one would see extremely divergent opinions, from people equally praising Mr Fell and his bookshop, to others saying this place is a nightmare and they shall never return there even under threat. And, if one happened to be a regular at Mr Fell’s bookshop (because there are a few of those -- people generally have a good experience visiting it so long as they don’t try to actually buy anything), one wouldn’t miss the newest addition to its décor. 

That is to say, a black kitten. 

As we speak, the creature naps. Comfortably installed in a little shoebox, it soaks in the rare rays of sun the London sky bestows upon him. The shoebox is placed near the door, in a spot usually reserved for the displaying of new book arrivals to onlookers outside. Mr. Fell, the owner, usually hovers in the background of the shop, like a hawk, whenever clients come in to make sure they treat his precious books with all due respect. But he has recently developed new habits : he settles at his countertop, close to the till. He greets clients as they come in, lets them stroll in the shop to their guise, and even sells a few books distractedly. When he is not thus occupied, he reads a book; and when he is not busy reading a book, he checks in on his little protégé. 

If one were to approach said countertop, one would notice it clustered with an array of books, marked with little strips of papers torn from journals. They are all about cats : _ How to care for cats; Cat behaviors and what they mean; My Cat and Me; 50 Cat Species; Cats and Their Ailments; _and so on. Mr Fell, anxious by nature, doesn’t do things by halves. 

In the box, the kitten yawns, stretches and mews weakly. Mr Fell startles, hastily closes his book (_The Story of a Seagull and the Cat Who Taught Her to Fly_, by Luis Sepulveda) and makes shushing noises at his charge as he rounds the desk to see it. A couple of women, nearby - college students who had been looking at a specific section of the shop for books relating to the fall of Rome - all but melt as the kitten mewls again. Mr Fell reaches inside the box and slowly takes the little thing in his hands, cradling it against his chest. “Hello, darling, hello! I’m here. You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he strokes the kitten’s head with a finger and the kitten purrs happily. Its fur is completely black, shining and glittering like the night sky. The kitten’s eyes are a disturbing yellow, the color of ochre. They were quite off-putting. Mr Fell lets the women approach, but his eyes never leave the cat in his arms, who is purring and scratching at his sweater contently - ruining what is no doubt expensive fabric. Mr Fell couldn’t care less. 

“Hello,” the first woman, Lily, murmurs. She has short blond hair and a faceful of freckles. “God, he’s _ adorable_. How old is he?” 

“Close to eight weeks now,” Aziraphale - for that is the owner’s real name - replies. 

“What’s his name?” 

Aziraphale says, “Crowley.” Lily makes a face. He feels the need to explain himself further. “His back legs didn't work properly when I found him. Rescued him from the streets, a few weeks ago. He was alone in a crate, the last one of his litter. He couldn’t move, he just - crawled. So I took him in. He’s had surgery recently to fix this - he’ll be good as new in no time. He’s a fighter, that one.” Crowley purrs louder. “_Yes _ you are.” The man's smile is so saccharine sweet it could melt a heart of stone. It’s clear Mr Fell is head over heels for his little kitten. 

“It’s nice to know you won’t be so alone anymore,” Lily’s friend says. Her name is Nathalie, and although she’s been coming here regularly every few weeks for a couple months she doesn’t think Mr Fell knows who she is. “It always seemed a bit empty in here.” 

“He’s a little devil,” Mr Fell says fondly. “Demanding my attention all the time.” He looks at his pocket watch. One of Mr Fell’s many peculiarities is that he dresses and behaves as though he was stuck a century behind. His pocket watch is the sort of thing you find in museums or odd antique shops. “5.30… I must close early today. We’ve got a vet appointment for his physical therapy.” Louder, in case a customer is stuck in the deep labyrinth of his bookshelves, he calls, “We’re closing, ladies and gentlemen! Please come up to the front desk if you need to buy anything!” 

Dismissed, Lily and Nath gush over the kitten once more before heading to the door. Minutes later, an old gentleman emerges from the depths of the bookshop. Aziraphale knows him well - he’s the husband of the late Mrs Hart, who he knew when she was a kid. Mr Hart must be close to eighty years old, and he has bought many books here. “Goodbye, Georges.” Aziraphale watches him as he slowly walks to the door, leaning on his cane. He opens it for him, and smiles at him as he heads into the street. 

“Good evening, Mr Fell,” Georges replies, voice quaking. Aziraphale happily closes the door behind him and locks it. Crowley meows petulantly, and Aziraphale softens. 

“Yes, yes. I know, I know. I’m with you.” 

\---

To say that Aziraphale, actual angel, former Principality of the Eastern Gate of Eden and part-time rare book dealer, had _ found _ the kitten would be inaccurate. 

It so happened that the kitten (who would later be named Crowley for its distinctive gait) had made its poor presence known to the man-shaped being passing by in front of the crate he had been unceremoniously abandoned in with a chorus of shrill meows. And how could Aziraphale, an angel, a being made of Empathy and Love for all living creatures, not have stopped in his tracks? 

It wasn’t, as such an encounter might be depicted in movies, a rainy evening. It was in fact rather sunny - early spring - and Aziraphale was on his way home after a scrumptious dinner at his favorite sushi restaurant. He felt quite replete and thought the walk might do his corporation some good; and he was glad he did, because if he had ignored that impulsion to walk instead of taking a cab, he never would have found himself in front of a crate facing a pair of imploring ochre eyes. 

The kitten, once it saw it had caught Aziraphale’s attention, would not stop meowing. Aziraphale looked around, surprised that no one had taken it in yet. There was a little piece of white cardboard stuck rather clumsily to the front of the box. It read, in lopsided letters written with black marker, _ Kittens up for adoption _ followed by a little drawing of a heart and a little paw. The black kitten was the only one left. 

Aziraphale pretended to hesitate, but truly he had already made his decision. While he had no need or want for a kitten, it wasn't as if his days were very busy. He leisurely divided his time between managing his bookshop, strolling in parks throughout the city, and accomplishing a few miracles and/or blessings when he could. All of that was interspaced with eating some jolly good meals in a few restaurants of choice. Moreover - wasn’t he just thinking the other day that he lacked companionship? Granted, when he had that reflection, he was thinking of the very good friendship he had maintained with Oscar Wilde in the nineteenth century. Still. Being the only angel to supervise all of England could get lonely. Perhaps a… four-legged friend was what he needed at the moment. Why else would God have put it on his path? 

Aziraphale knew nothing about kitten care. He figured books would be a reliable source of information to figure that out. First, he had to shelter the poor thing; the kitten was still meowing, weakly. Aziraphale noticed a bit late that although it made quite a lot of noise, it did not move. The angel knelt down and offered his hand to the kitten. It smelled him, and then headbutted his knuckles. Aziraphale smiled and stroked its head. “Hello my dear. What would you say to coming home with me? I could miracle you the best of fish. Or - milk. What do you like?” 

_ Mreooow. _

Aziraphale moved his hand, and the kitten followed it with his eyes. He was sat on its back legs, and although he seemed very alert, he couldn’t seem to move, which struck Aziraphale as odd. He frowned. Very, very gently, he took the little kitten in his hands and pulled him up. He sheltered it in the crook of his arm. The kitten sunk its claws in Aziraphale’s coat and didn’t let go. 

Aziraphale talked to it all the way home, about nonsensical things. He mused aloud about the new worries choosing to adopt a cat implied - he would have to take it to the vet first thing. He knew there was something wrong with the kitten’s legs, could feel the pain and sickness emanating from him. But he didn’t dare heal them with a miracle for fear of making things worse, as he was no expert on cat anatomy. 

He would have to buy it toys, keep it entertained. Aziraphale babbled and smiled, and didn’t notice that in his arms, the kitten had fallen asleep, lulled by the steady pace of the man’s steps. It was exhausted. But for the first time in its short existence, it felt entirely safe. 

\---

It had watched its brothers and sisters go, one by one, plucked from the crate where they kept him warm, all happily finding a new family. He had adopted the same behavior as them, meowing and licking the hands that pet them, even when they smelled bad. But he was never chosen. Why? He wondered. People murmured, pointed fingers at his back legs, but he couldn’t understand what they said. He knew he didn’t move the same as his siblings, knew that it hurt terribly when he tried. He wanted to cry that it was nothing. He was just as deserving of love as them. But he was never picked. 

By the end of the day, he was the only one left behind. He lied down, tucking his front paws under his body, and tried not to shiver. He was hungry. And thirsty. Cold. Lonely. He missed his mother, and called for her. 

She did not answer him, but... a human did. He smelled like milk (indeed, Aziraphale had had _ Fromage Blanc with berries _ for dessert). His hands were big and so warm. The kitten felt too tired to protest when he was picked up, although a tiny corner of his brain purred in happiness when he realized he _ stayed _ in the man’s arms. He fell asleep sometime later. It seemed maybe he had found his own, small family after all. 

\---

Aziraphale did not rest the first night he had the kitten home. He miracled into existence a little toy, a pink stick with a tuft of feathers at the top, and waved it in front of the kitten’s face, who tried to catch it with determination with its front paws. 

The angel had tried to help him walk by supporting him, both hands under the kitten’s belly, but it didn’t work. Its back legs just refused to move. He'd stopped when the kitten mewled in pain, and resolved to go to the nearest vet first thing in the morning. 

He miracled food into existence, and fed it little pieces of fish by hand, then gave it water. The kitten gobbled it all down. 

“What are we going to call you…?” Aziraphale murmured as the kitten, tired from playing, slowly blinked. Its head lolled to the side. It looked ready to drop and fall asleep any moment. “Let’s see… You’re black. Sky?” A slow blink. “Hmm… Nightshade?” He made a face. “Dear lord, I’m not good with names…. Ash? Shadow?... Nebula?” The kitten purred, and Aziraphale looked at him accusingly. “You’re not helping, you know?” He was sitting cross legged in front of it, right in the middle of his bookshop, on the dusty wooden planks. 

The kitten started slowly moving towards him, dragging its back legs behind. Aziraphale scooped it up into his arms. “Look at you, crawling like a little warrior!” He nuzzled the kitten’s face, who meowed in reply. “Oh my darling. You’ll be the most beautiful of all cats in the neighbourhood.” He paused. “I don’t like these other names, they’re too… generic. Any cat could be named Night or Ash. You need something unique, just as you are unique. My little crawling kitten. Let’s see… Crawl… Crawly? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Crawley? Crawling… Crow… Crowley?” 

The kitten licked his nose. “Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed. “Crowley, my little devil! Yes, I like that.” He looked down at the kitten, who yawned, briefly hiding his startling yellow eyes. “Hello, Crowley. I’m Aziraphale. I’m an angel, but you’re not supposed to say that to people. This is my bookshop. It’s the place I love most in the world,” he said. “And you’ll be living with me here. I hope you like it.”

Crowley meowed in what he hoped the human understood as approval, and promptly dozed off, exhausted by what had been quite an eventful day. Aziraphale sung him a lullaby, a remembered hymn from Heaven. 

Then he miracled a shoebox into existence, just the right size for his new guest. He followed it by a small pillow, again perfectly sized, and a little blanket so the kitten could be warm. He’d watch over his new charge all night. Aziraphale put Crowley in the shoebox, where it curled its little body around nothing. Quickly, Aziraphale also miracled a tiny teddy bear into existence, and placed it between the kitten’s paws. Crowley immediately clung to it in his sleep, and Aziraphale was so moved by the sight he started tearing up. Right outside the shop, on the sidewalk, flowers sprouted and bloomed in between the cracks on the pavement. 

The love he felt for this little being was already overwhelming. How did he get attached so quickly? He understood, now, why humans kept pets if they made them feel such adoration. He stood up and took the shoebox to the backroom of the shop. He fussed over the little thing, wondering where to place him so the kitten (currently fast asleep) would be warm and comfortable. In the end he put it on the narrow sofa, securing the box between four little pillows so that it wouldn’t budge. Then he went to his office desk and turned on the age-old computer he owned and used solely for very meticulous accounting. 

It was an IBM PC 510 model, dating back to the 1980s; Aziraphale had gotten it for free from a neighbour, who sought to get rid of the thing that had belonged to his now deceased father. Aziraphale figured he had to get on with the times - what better way to do that than acquire a computer? They seemed to be all the rage nowadays. The IBM was out of fashion, of course, but Aziraphale preferred to start with the basics. He found it was perfect for the use he had of it. He never noticed that the computer had never been plugged in, and solely kept working out of force of sheer will, because Aziraphale was an angel and expected it to work. 

The machine came to life with an agonising whirring sound. Aziraphale glared at it (it could wake the kitten!) and it quieted down obediently, shamed. The angel settled down, intending to keep busy until it was time to take Crowley to the veterinarian. He’d be up if the kitten woke and needed anything. Aziraphale stole one last glance at his little protégé (who wrinkled his nose in his sleep and clutched the teddy bear tighter), smiled stupidly, and went back to work. 

\---

The nearest vet clinic was barely two streets away. It was run by a man named Dr Graves. He was known to be a handsome middle-aged man, with a heart of gold, and an array of reassuring diplomas. The waiting room Aziraphale currently sat in was decorated with a few informational posters, and excerpts from newspaper articles praising Mr Graves and his practice. 

Aziraphale was his first client of the day, and he felt a little bit intimidated. In his arms, Crowley was wriggling, perturbed by all the new smells and lights of the waiting room. It was 8.32 am. Aziraphale had been waiting in front of the clinic when Mr. Graves arrived, wearing a long, dark coat, oxfords shining and tortoise shell glasses gleaming on the tip of his nose. He greeted Aziraphale and told him to wait while he prepared to receive him. His secretary arrived not long after; she was a bright, bubbly woman, with bouncing golden curls and a smile that could outshine the sun. Aziraphale vaguely wondered if this vet clinic doubled as a model agency. 

He kept his attention on Crowley, absently petting its head. The kitten still couldn’t walk, but he seemed full of pent-up energy, even more than yesterday. Mr. Graves re-emerged from his office, clad in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck. “Mr Fell,” he said. “Please do come in.” 

\---

According to the vet, Crowley was indeed a male. He was about six weeks old, was weaned and could eat solid food. The kitten kept trying to escape Mr. Graves’ hands while Aziraphale watched him warily, worried like a mother hen, ready to do something reckless, like step in if Crowley seemed to be in too much distress. Mr Graves handled the kitten like a professional, of course, but Crowley kept mewling, and Aziraphale could barely bear it. 

Mr Graves examined the kitten’s back and legs. With two hands he supported Crowley under his belly, and tried to get him to move his back legs so he could walk on the little examining table. It didn’t work. Aziraphale pointed out he had tried that too. Crowley meowed pitifully, exhausted after all the poking and prodding. “He is healthy,” Mr Graves finally explained, taking off his white gloves. He washed his hands and dried them with a cloth. Aziraphale pet the kitten, trying to soothe him. “But he is paralyzed from the waist down. Now this could be due to a number of things, so we’ll need to do an X-ray to rule out some theories, and work from there. If he is paralyzed due to a fracture or a broken bone as I think, surgery then physiotherapy will easily fix it. May I ask what your job is, Mr Fell?” 

“I own a bookshop,” said Aziraphale. He was looking at Crowley, wondering, now that he knew what ailed him, if he couldn’t just spare him the pain and use a miracle to heal him. 

“Good,” said Mr Graves. “You’ll need to be very present for him, both before and after the surgery, so it’s great if you don’t have a busy schedule." 

Aziraphale thought real bookshop owners probably _ did _have a busy schedule, but as it was Mr Graves was hardly wrong. "I'll make time for him," he said regardless. 

"Now. We'll keep Crowley here for the day, in order to make the further necessary exams. You can come pick him up in a few hours, say 2 pm? And I’ll go with you over the results.” 

Aziraphale hesitated. He absolutely did not want to leave Crowley to the hands of strangers, no matter how competent these people were. “Can he keep his teddy bear?” Aziraphale took the thing out of his pocket, and placed it within Crowley’s reach on the table. The kitten immediately clung to it and bit it playfully. 

Mr Graves smiled, softening. “Of course.” He opened the door and held out his hand. “We’ll see you later, Mr Fell. Good day.” 

Aziraphale shook the man’s hand and stepped outside. He felt tension in the set of his shoulders, in the lock of his jaw; he forced himself to take a deep breath. Crowley would be fine, of course. God had meant for Aziraphale to care for the little creature, and care and love he would. The angel squared himself and bypassed the waiting room, now significantly more occupied (he saw a poor bulldog with a plastic cone, a fat persian cat in a basket, and a young man with a snake). He stepped outside. It had just started drizzling. Using a miracle to protect himself from the rain, Aziraphale decided to walk all the way back to his bookshop. It would clear his head. 

\---

In the end, surgery was scheduled for the following week. 

Mr Graves’ theory had been right : Crowley had a broken back (fractured vertebrae) and a broken rib that pushed into his spinal cord, all of which left him paralyzed in his back legs. Aziraphale shuddered to think of what could have possibly happened for him to sustain such an injury. 

In light of this, they decided to keep him at the clinic. Crowley needed to build up strength before the procedure. Aziraphale took to visiting them every day. The kitten always purred loudly when he saw him. He was on a very strict regimen : pain medication, antibiotics and steroids, to help with the spinal cord injury. 

After the surgery, Aziraphale could take him home, but he would have to come back daily again for the physical exercises, so they could monitor Crowley’s progress and his recovery. Aziraphale, privately, hoped to speed up the process just a bit using his divine healing. He’d been itching to do so since the beginning, and finally felt like it was safe enough. Patience was a virtue. It wasn't one Aziraphale, even though he was an angel, possessed in spades. 

However, he did find the whole process highly educational. He had to endure the whole process (making appointments, waiting, _ hoping _ ) the way a normal human would. He learned about compassion and love, discussing with Mr Graves and his team as they tried to reassure him that Crowley would be alright. He had a lot of respect for them. He greatly admired their intelligence and knowledge. Crowley was being very brave, of course; but the humans… why, the humans were _ amazing_. To be able to determine what the problem was, and to be able to fix it without magic, in order to give the kitten the best life… God. 

Aziraphale resolved to send a very heartfelt prayer to the Almighty, so that She might guarantee love, health and happiness to Mr Graves, his employees and their families when this was all over. 

He felt full to bursting with love. It was everywhere in the clinic : unconditional love, and hope for these little creatures humans had grown attached to. There was also sadness, and despair, and the acrid smell of illness. Aziraphale tried to help with that when he could, comforting people and easing the animals' pain. 

He was here so often, and he was so appreciated, that people started calling him Mr Sunshine. He always seemed to glow : if one looked long enough at him, they would notice in the corner of their eyes little flecks of gold, a divine light seeping through the minute cracks of Aziraphale's corporation. 

\---

Crowley made a speedy recovery. 

Slightly speedier than what was strictly normal, Mr Graves thought, but it was better this than the other way around. Wisely, he decided not to question it. 

Mr Fell had come so often now that he knew the name of every person on Graves’ team. He often brought them an assortment of cakes or pastries when he visited with Crowley. Mr Graves might have put on a pound or two since he started caring for the man’s cat. Ezra was a very kind man, if a bit odd - he seemed to be stuck more than fifty years in the past. He didn’t know what an IPhone was, and didn’t care to know. It must be nice to live like that, Graves sometimes wistfully thought. 

Today was the last time they would see each other, unless little Crowley had another problem, which Mr Graves hoped wouldn’t happen anytime soon. The kitten had been incredibly brave, strong and resilient. After a few days of physical therapy, he had been able to stand to eat without assistance for almost a minute. It had been four weeks since the surgery now, and Crowley could walk on his own, even if he did a little stumble every now and then. Aziraphale reported that he’d bought him new toys, and a proper basket, and a new teddy bear, though Crowley still slept with the old one like it was his mother. 

One evening, when Aziraphale was reading, settled in his favorite armchair, Crowley meowed at his feet, wiggled his butt and hopped right onto the angel's lap. Aziraphale had been so stunned he’d dropped the book, which in turn knocked the cocoa cup on the table down, spilling hot chocolate on the rug. Aziraphale had praised Crowley to Heaven and back, uncaring of the mess the cat had made. 

\---

The kitten had grown a lot; he was not yet an adult, but he was much bigger than when Aziraphale found him. Crowley loved cuddles and headbonks. He loved tuna and ham (Aziraphale spoiled him, food wise), loved to lick Aziraphale’s fingers and snuggle with him. His purrs always filled the room. If Aziraphale had known Freddie Mercury, he would have said that Crowley’s and the singer’s vocal range were quite similar in intensity. 

Crowley loved the blanket Aziraphale had knitted for him during two restless nights, although it had been torn to shreds as he sharpened his claws. He loved to explore Aziraphale’s bookshop and jump on the bookshelves whenever he saw a free spot, nevermind how much that disturbed Aziraphale’s careful organization. 

He loved to sit and bask in the sun in the same place Aziraphale had first put his little shoebox. The angel had never had so many customers before, and he strongly suspected many of them only came because they saw Crowley from the outside and wanted to pet him. There was cat hair all over Aziraphale’s clothes, sometimes within the pages of books; and when he found them Aziraphale would sigh good naturedly, and miracle them away. 

Crowley loved all this. But most of all, he loved _ Aziraphale_. The human gave him food and quite amazing head scritches. He had helped Crowley, he knew that, because Crowley wasn’t in pain anymore. 

The cat followed Aziraphale nearly everywhere he went, meowing for attention, and once or twice Aziraphale had nearly fallen head first because Crowley kept rubbing his legs as he went around the room. When that happened, the angel picked him up, and Crowley tried to scale further still to the angel’s shoulder, to drape himself across them like a particularly fashionable boa scarf. Aziraphale then walked around like this, unbothered, and Crowley had never felt quite so content. 

The angel, too, had never been so at peace as when he held Crowley in his arms. 

\---

The night of Aziraphale’s last visit to the clinic, the angel, as he had promised, prayed. 

And maybe God did hear him; maybe the Almighty cared. Maybe this was part of an ineffable plan. 

Because that night, Mr Graves left the clinic after a long day of work, knackered and itching for a drink. 

He made sure all doors and windows were locked, and that the alarm worked. His car, a matte grey cut Volvo, was the last one in the parking lot. Mr Graves stopped walking when he saw a man was leaning against the hood of it, his face obscured by the shadows. “Theo?” He called, because he would recognize that man’s silhouette anywhere. 

Theo was Graves’ best mate. They'd been in the army together, and had known each other for more than twenty years. Unbeknownst to either of them, they were also both hopelessly in love with each other; and both never said anything for fear of ruining their friendship. Thus, they had both had a couple of flings, but generally remained single and miserable, for their hearts were already taken. 

Graves hadn't seen Theo for a couple weeks. He was worried his sudden reappearance, especially so late at night, meant bad news. "Is everything alright?" 

"Yeah," Theo said. He waited until Graves was closer and uncrossed his arms. Unceremoniously, he then grabbed the man by the lapels of his coat and kissed him. 

(He had no idea what suddenly possessed him to do so. Originally, he was just here to propose Graves a drink so they might catch up with stuff. This was a... new development. A welcome one, given that the other man kissed him with the same amount of enthusiasm once the shock had worn off.) 

They parted. Mr Graves was flushed, his once carefully combed hair now a mess. He was looking anywhere but at Theo, and idly plucked at Theo' scarf. "Hm," he said. "I." 

"Yeah," Theo said, breathless, and kissed him again. 

\---

That night, Mr. Graves’ secretary, Cath, went home. Her boyfriend had made dinner. He had set the table with candles. After they had dined, he gave her an envelope with two tickets for a vacation to the South of Italy - where Cath had always wanted to go. They started packing the very same night. 

Unbeknown to her, Jake brought with him on this trip a little ring inside a velvet box, a ring he had agonized over for hours. She would say yes. 

That evening, Cath’s sister, Therese, received a promotion and a salary raise for outstanding performance at work. Unbeknown to either sisters, that night, Graves’ assistant, a young man called Jonathan, would go home and learn that his wife was pregnant with their second child. A girl, like they wanted. Unbeknown to him_ , _ the mother of said wife would be cured of her illness; and in a few years, her father would win the lottery. 

And all around joy bloomed, spread, and flowed without measure - all because a lonely angel had found a broken kitten and chosen to love him. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
